She’s mounted on her milk-white steed, She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene’er her bridle rang, The steed gaed swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on, The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reach’d a desert wide, And living land was left behind. ‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee; Abide ye there a little space, And I will show you ferlies three. ‘O see ye not yon narrow road, So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers? That is the Path of Righteousness, Though after it but few inquires. ‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road, That lies across the lily leven? That is the Path of Wickedness, Though some call it the Road to Heaven. leven]? lawn. ‘And see ye not yon bonny road That winds about the fernie brae? That is the Road to fair Elfland, Where thou and I this night maun gae. ‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue, Whatever ye may hear or see; For speak ye word in Elfyn-land, Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’ O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded rivers abune the knee; And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea. It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight, They waded thro’ red blude to the knee; For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earth Rins through the springs o’ that countrie. Syne they came to a garden green, And she pu’d an apple frae a tree: ‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’ ‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said; ‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! I neither dought to buy or sell At fair or tryst where I might be. ‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’-- ‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said, ‘For as I say, so must it be.’ dought] could. He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen. _368._ _Sir Patrick Spens_ I. _The Sailing_ The king sits in Dunfermline town Drinking the blude-red wine; ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper To sail this new ship o’ mine?’ O up and spak an eldern knight, Sat at the king’s right knee; ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor That ever sail’d the sea.’ Our king has written a braid letter, And seal’d it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o’er the faem; The king’s daughter o’ Noroway, ’Tis thou must bring her hame.’